


Warmth

by blizzara



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blizzara/pseuds/blizzara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows, with the self-same certainty that storm clouds will produce rain, that Kaizuka Inaho has decided to pay a visit. When he's trying to sleep. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift for my good friend [Sule](http://vennieandroxie.tumblr.com/)! She drew [this lovely art](https://twitter.com/vennieandroxie/status/621547891551793152) for it, and I'm currently writing up a follow-up fic.

It's late when the low groan of his cell door drifts to Slaine's ears. The sound feels distant to him, as if an echo from some other place and time, and at first he's content to ignore it. His blankets are warm against the chill winter air, pulled up over him such that he's an indistinct pale lump on his cot, his hair the only distinguishing feature visible.

The soft, measured tap of boots comes next. And this Slaine's dim awareness latches onto, recognizes in its vaguest forms as something he knows. Something he's heard before so many times that it might just be burned into his recall. Even half-asleep he has to grunt his protest and roll over to face the wall.

Because he knows what's coming.

He knows, with the self-same certainty that storm clouds will produce rain, that Kaizuka Inaho has decided to pay a visit. When he's trying to sleep. Again.

"It's the middle of the night," he mumbles, curling up further as though this might conceal him from his visitor. Naturally he's aware that won't work, but he's going to savor the warmth of his stiff, uncomfortable bed for every second he can get.

"Three fifteen in the morning," Inaho corrects him placidly. A weight drops on the foot of his bed, thin mattress creaking like packed snow underneath boots. Silence settles heavily between them then, and despite the inevitable reality he's facing, Slaine's content to stubbornly pretend this isn't going the same way it always seems to.

The nudge to his legs is far from unexpected. "You're taking up a lot of space."

"I'm trying to sleep," he huffs out, tiredly pushing himself up with the weary acceptance of having been in this position before. It's forever a wonder to Slaine that of all the people, he's the one Inaho chooses to disturb. The one whom his once mortal enemy decides to pay visits to at odd hours of the night like this, as though there's anything remotely normal about it.

Not that he minds as much as he'd have Inaho believe, the sole and only company he ever has, but... That doesn't mean he's going to encourage this.

Stifling a yawn behind his hand, Slaine sits up, letting his back rest heavily against the concrete wall behind him. His blanket hangs over his shoulders, but he still shivers in the chill air, having lost whatever heat he'd managed to accumulate. He casts a glance Inaho's way, opens his mouth-

"Which is heavier, a pound of feathers or a pound of gold?" The question breezes past Inaho's lips so abruptly that Slaine can do little better than stare blearily at him for a long moment.

Did he just...?

"You did not wake me up just for that," Slaine huffs, folding his arms across his chest to punctuate this assertion. Ever since he started actually holding conversation, he's been asked a lot of things like this. Usually it's probing questions, but now and then, rather pointless riddles find their way into the mix. He's not sure what sort of gain comes of it.

If the baleful stare Slaine directs at him bothers Inaho at all, it doesn't show. He only settles more comfortably on the bed, shuffling over to sit beside him. Though he's never admitted as much, it's obvious enough that he doesn't like the cold. And the snow melting into the shoulders of his jacket tell him what it’s like outside. "No, I didn't. What's your answer?"

Slaine puffs out a long-suffering sigh at that reply. He tiredly rubs at his eyes as he mulls the question over, accepting the inevitable need for an answer. Even without seeing his company's expectant stare, he knows it's there. Sure enough when his hands drop, Inaho is watching intently, leaning forward as though he might follow his groggy train of thought better that way.

"...It's the feathers." He pronounces, shrugging further into the warmth of his blanket.

Inaho watches him closely for several moments in stark silence before he reluctantly sits back against the cold wall behind him. He cringes against the chill that soaks through his layered clothing, something he tries and fails to conceal. Tipping his head back to look at the sterile white ceiling as though to reflect, he asks, "What led you to that conclusion?"

"Just seemed like the sort of thing you'd ask me," Slaine replies casually - and it's true. The questions Inaho poses are usually a very pointed sort. Either they're meant as some unmasked attempt at understanding his thought process better, or they're intended to play on his expectations. In this case, he banks on the latter.

"You're right," Inaho confirms after a measured pause. "But you don't know why you're right. Precious metals are measured in troy weight, while feathers are-"

Slaine lifts a hand as though he can shield himself from an impending dissertation on Things He Doesn't Care About. As much as certain information appeals to him, how different materials are weighted doesn't number among these. Besides which, he's half-awake to start with. "I don't need to know."

His reward is the slightest quirk of dark brows. But Inaho lets it go, turning to reach over the edge of the bed. Slaine's gaze follows these movements as a folder is drawn up and presented to him, the same kind he’s seen during several recent visits. His lips twitch into something of a wry smile at the sight before he smooths it away into something more businesslike, taking the folder and flicking it open without ceremony.

It only takes a few moments of scanning over the first document before Slaine's gaze ticks over to Inaho. "Those counts that refuse to leave..." He sounds vaguely smug as he says it, settling more comfortably to read. "I knew you had actual business."

The only answer he gets at first is a noncommittal hum. Occasionally, his old enemy has shown up simply to pass the time. Given his mentions of friends outside, it's a wonder to Slaine that his company would be sought out, but he doesn't question it. A part of him isn't sure what sort of answer he might get...or perhaps, he wouldn't know what to do with an answer if he got one.

But he puts those thoughts aside in favor of reviewing the information in front of him, leaning over the open folder balanced on his legs. The names aren't unfamiliar to him, and he trails a finger under the lines of text as he reads, if only for the benefit of present company to know where he is in this perusal.

The room remains all but silent in the chill of early morning, interrupted only by the crisp sound of pages turning. Slaine doesn't bother to comment on anything, not until he's finished reviewing the file's contents.

It's no surprise that over a year later, some Counts are still holding their ground. Even now, Slaine can understand why. He props his chin on one of his hands as he weighs this information, turning it about in his mind before he's willing to comment upon it. "As I recall, Count Bol-" 

His sentence chokes off somewhere in his throat when he looks in Inaho's direction, finding he's pressed a hand firmly over his eye-patch. It’s something he’s seen enough times to guess what it means. "...The headaches again?"

As though realizing he's made some mistake, Inaho abruptly lets his hand drop. His expression remains as calm as ever, but by now the strain is glaringly obvious to Slaine's eyes. "It's nothing. You were saying?"

Frowning at this flimsy denial, he snaps the folder shut and tosses it aside. Regardless of the truth, Inaho always says the same thing. But it doesn't change the pang of guilt Slaine feels, doesn't change his awareness that his actions ultimately yielded such results.

He squints at the other man, and only gets a flat look in return.

Slaine lifts a hand, hovering near Inaho's face for several drawn moments. His hesitation settles thick in the air as he debates with himself, having begun an action yet unsure he wants to proceed. Generally, they don't really make direct contact, even sitting beside each other like this. But he stubbornly presses on, settling his fingers over the brunet's temple.

If he thought he'd been watched pointedly before, it has nothing on the briefly unguarded stare this one, small gesture yields. Slaine ducks his head as though to escape it, but he feels that gaze boring into him all the same.

"A warm touch...helps with pain, I think." He mumbles the words, feeling instantly foolish for having bothered. Perhaps the thought was owed only to a foggy memory of his mother, and held no real basis in fact. It's actually the only thing he remembers about her. Not her face, not her name. Only the warmth of her touch and the comfort that it brought him.

It feels like a lifetime ago, now.

"Your hands are cold," Inaho helpfully points out.

Slaine's face flushes as he draws his hand back, fast regretting his attempt at helping. He hurriedly reclaims the folder to turn his focus on something else, anything else, and practically buries his face in it. Not that there’s anything new or interesting to be found, but he can certainly pretend. Maybe it's for the better that he sticks to business...

He doesn’t know how many times he’s read the same sentence when a weight suddenly drops on his shoulder. Stiffening reflexively, Slaine's pale eyebrows knit together at this odd intrusion into his personal space, at first not quite sure what he should expect.

Slowly, cautiously, he looks up from the folder.

Resting against his shoulder, good eye closed, is Inaho. "Wh..." Slaine's response is little more than a puzzled exhale as he watches him there, quite sure he can't be seeing what he's seeing even as he stares right at the guy's face. This isn’t something that happens. Ever.

"...Kaizuka?" He ventures with cautious reluctance.

His only answer is an incoherent mumble as Inaho settles more heavily against him, and he's all the more rigid for it. What should someone do, in this situation?

Slaine isn't sure. But after a few long minutes of debate he quietly sets the folder aside again. He shifts awkwardly, prying the blanket out from between them, and clumsily drapes it over the brunet. After taking a few moments to review his handiwork, he supposes it’ll have to do...even if Inaho’s head is covered along with the rest of him..

Inaho didn't like the cold, so he couldn't complain...right?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter where someone was on this planet, Christmas is a holiday shared with loved ones. 
> 
> Not really for someone who shot you in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a gift for my good friend [Sule](http://vennieandroxie.tumblr.com/)!

It's been a year and a half, but it feels longer as Slaine looks up. A thick grey blanket of clouds obscures the night sky, but the memory of the stars beyond them is burned into his mind. Space and his prison cell feel far more familiar than the wide, open world he's stepped into. And for a time, all he can do is look out at what has for so long been beyond his reach, snowflakes dusting his cheeks and jacket.

The movement beside him eventually drags his attention back, forcing him to wonder just how long he'd stood around for. It's a fleeting thought as he tugs his hat down and his scarf up, reconfirming that he's obscured as much of his face as he can. Common sense tells him that surely nothing has changed as he stood entirely still, but the worry remains.

Surely his face is the most hated on Earth.

Once he's satisfied with this, he brushes snow from his sleeves and glances toward his company. The pointed gaze in his direction doesn't shift or falter in the slightest, which isn't much of a surprise. Slaine puffs out a quiet sigh, shifting with a given unease as a laughing couple passes by, their shoes crunching softly into the snow. "Why...exactly...am I out here?"

He's wondered this ever since they left, but he found himself afraid to ask. The tracking device around his ankle, though hidden from those around him, remains cold against his skin. A constant reminder that he's a prisoner - regardless of where he is. And he doesn't understand this choice. Why let him out? Even though it's a holiday, it makes no sense that he's allowed to be here.

"Do you need a reason?" Inaho asks, implacable as always. He lets his line of sight drift off to the festive decorations and lighted displays lining the avenue, a blatant show of his lack of concern. And they both know that's exactly what it is. He's saying there isn't any threat of Slaine escaping. That he can't.

Slaine doesn't know how he feels about that, looking down at his boots. Even if he's outside, his circumstances are no different. Beside him, Inaho offers a noncommittal shrug. He feels those eyes have settled on him again, but he doesn't meet them. "...You don't want to be?"

This too is something Slaine doesn't know how to answer, reaching up to adjust his scarf again. Uneasiness radiates off of his posture. He's long since become accustomed to near isolation in a prison cell, and suddenly he's surrounded by light and laughter. People lugging shopping bags and holding hands with loved ones. Where does someone like him, who waged war with this planet, belong in all of this?

"Isn't Christmas more of a couples' holiday in your country?" Is what he eventually asks, forcing himself to walk, if only to have something else to do. Ever since they'd gotten here, he's been all too aware of the sorts of people around them. No matter where someone was on this planet, Christmas is a holiday shared with loved ones. 

Not really for someone who shot you in the eye.

Inaho matches pace beside him easily enough, makes it seem casual despite the difference in their heights. He doesn't answer the question, because they both know already. Normally, yes, Christmas is a popular occasion for couples...but that hasn't much bearing on the two of them. And they both know that, too.

"...Consider it a reward," is what Inaho eventually offers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. That he hates the cold is no secret, which has also left Slaine quite baffled as to _why_ they're here. 

"A reward?" Slaine can't help but look at him then, curious in spite of himself. Since when were prisoners ever rewarded for anything? Good behavior might yield a lighter sentence, he supposes, but not outings like this. It seems a peculiar sort of reward, and Inaho appears to take note of the way his pale eyebrows furrow under the brim of his hat.

After looking out at the sidewalk in front of them, he seems to consider his reply before lending it any voice. When he does, it's delivered in the same idle monotone that Slaine has become so familiar with. "Your intel has been very beneficial in routing the remaining Counts. There have been significantly less casualties than there would've been otherwise."

He can't stave off a wry smile behind his scarf, and it seeps into his tone when he answers, "That was the point."

Slaine didn't have to be willing. He didn't have to be forthright. Thus far there had been no real efforts to interrogate him - perhaps because his scars bespoke of how enduring his willpower was. It was no longer any secret that he'd been tortured by the very side he'd eventually tried to champion, though Inaho had only seen them recently. He'd not said a word about those marks, and it was one instance for which Slaine was grateful that his enemy didn't usually indulge in pointless remarks.

The reason he'd provided the information he had was also why he'd ordered his forces to surrender. While Slaine was - and remains - a great many things he isn't proud of... Someone who condones needless death isn't among them.

If Inaho is surprised, it doesn't show. His features tighten, just for a moment, but he glances away the instant Slaine notices. Perhaps it's the headaches again. He's almost certain that's what it is, because there are so few things in the world that make Inaho look away first.

And lately, headaches seem to be the primary reason.

It might be the cold or it might be something else entirely, but they seem to be happening more and more frequently, of late.

"We stick out like a sore thumb." Slaine makes the idle comment when the silence between them feels too heavy, too awkward. When he has charts and reports in front of him it's easier to pretend that void doesn't exist, to occupy it with something else. Knowing that he's caused even an enemy lingering pain isn't something he can ignore, and it gnaws at him still yet.

When Inaho looks his way again, his expression has smoothed into measured neutrality once more. Maybe it wasn't the headaches after all, then. "Aren't you used to that by now?" The question comes with the slightest tip of his head, one Slaine has come to understand as an indication of interest. He's curious, then, about how he'll answer.

His first response is simply to shrug, looking out at the lights that line their path. It's a question they both know the answer to, but Inaho still wants to see how he responds to it. Something about that feels strange. "How unlike you, asking something like that."

Guarded responses are familiar ground between them now, though Slaine has often dropped the pretense that there's much point to it.

As with any other answer he might've given, Inaho simply accepts it, shrugging further into the warmth of his coat. The temperature seems to affect him more than he wants to let on, even if they're both well aware of it by now. Something about that is vaguely amusing - the stubborn insistence on pretending he's not as cold as he really is.

For someone who trounced enemies with seemingly little effort, worrying over such a minor weakness seems laughable.

He opens his mouth to comment on as much, but the words catch in his throat when Inaho slumps against him. Gloved hands fumble to brace him, making some clumsy attempt at propping the shorter man up. Maybe he really had been hurting, then... "Kaiz-"

"I'm fine." Inaho's strained voice cuts him off, and it's more than obvious after all this time when he's struggling to maintain his even tone. It's very doubtful that he's fine, and Slaine is sure that people who know him better and longer would agree with that assessment, frowning at the way Inaho presses a hand over his eye-patch as though he's trying to contain something.

The first attempt Inaho makes to stand on his own ends in him stumbling, bumping against Slaine's side again. Gritting his teeth, he tries to straighten him up again. He is most certainly _not_ fine. Was the cold making his condition worse, somehow? "Don't give me that crap, Kaizuka." 

A wry smile ghosts over Inaho's lips and his eyes flutter shut, falling against him again. This time it's his full weight, and Slaine knows what the difference means, awkwardly grabbing hold of him so he doesn't drop right onto the snow-coated pavement. It's an idiotic stubbornness for someone who's supposed to be so intelligent to have, he thinks, frowning down at the other man as he weighs what in the world he should do now.

Actually, it comes as a surprise that UFE personnel didn't burst out of the woodwork, just now. Surely they're being monitored, at the very least.

 _I'm fine_.

"...That was for them, wasn't it?" He mutters under his breath when the realization hits him. It wasn't something said in order to allay his own concerns, supposing that he had any. Rather it was likely to prevent the very thing that he would've expected to happen, just now. Whether that will really work remains to be seen, however.

Inaho slips in his grip and he struggles to pick him back up, ignoring the odd looks he's getting from strangers. It doesn't matter what exactly it looks like when he starts to haul his unconscious load toward the nearest doorway. Getting out of the cold is the best thing he can do for him, right now. Shy of those operatives really busting out of the woodwork to take them away in any event.

• • •

What first seeps into Inaho's awareness is warmth.

Regardless of how many layers he'd managed to put on earlier, he hadn't been warm. The chill night air bit at his skin every time the breeze picked up. Walking had improved that, but only by degrees. It wasn't something he wanted to show, but it was clear enough to him that Slaine had noticed. Yielding even that much to him wasn't a notion he was particularly settled with.

But now...now the air is warm. Cozy, even. That means he's not outside anymore - that swims blearily into his awareness, as does a distinct aroma. Something sweet, he thinks. In the next instant he concludes it's chocolate, fingers twitching as slowly, his body comes to feel like his. The world settles around him, arranging itself around the dull aching in his skull.

They were out earlier, and he lost consciousness, hadn't he?

Somebody must have brought him in. If Slaine tried to escape, he couldn't get very far, not with that tracking device on. Granted there was the possibility that he found some way to take it off, but he couldn't get very far even so. It would be better if he didn't try of course, but-

"You're surprisingly heavy, for being so small."

Slowly, he opens his eye, squinting against the light he's greeted with. Pain reasserts its presence and he closes it again for a long moment, bracing himself. Even with dimmed lights, he isn't at all surprised that it hurts... And he takes several moments before he ventures to open his eye again.

He sits up stiffly, finding he's been deposited in a plush chair, and a brief glance around tells him he's in a coffee shop. This survey eventually lands on Slaine Troyard, seated a short distance away with a mug clasped between his hands. It doesn't seem he's made any effort to drink the beverage, scarf and hat still obscuring his face.

Inaho quirks an eyebrow at that, by the palest of degrees. "Am I to assume I'm buying?"

"You already have," comes the reply, without the sharpness of his comment about weight. If it were someone else he might take it for concern, the way Slaine is watching him now. Maybe it really is that - Seylum had professed that her old friend was kind. And he'd tested that once, during the rainy season so many months ago. "...We could've gone inside, before."

Then it is concern. He shifts in muted unease where he sits, fingers brushing against a mug stationed at the table beside him. Easily concluding that this one is meant for him, he collects the cup and takes a sip. Not very warm anymore, which means it's been a while. If some time has passed, then their outing won't last very much longer. Clearance was only given for a limited window, after all.

Slaine doesn't seem surprised by the lack of response. Less and less seems to surprise him, lately. His gaze drops to the contents of the mug in his hands, something he's close to having but can't for fear of showing his face. One of so many things close and yet out of his reach. "Your headaches are getting worse. You should see someone about that."

"I'm fine." He knows he's answered too quickly when Slaine's eyes narrow by small degrees as he turns his attention to the world outside. As much as he might try to combat his own expressive nature, he's certainly easy enough to read. Still, it's odd having his former enemy give him advice about his own health, and there's no masking that fact. "...It's just the weather."

It's all Inaho is willing to offer, glancing out the window along with him. People continue to mill about the street, ducking into and out of shops as snow continues to fall. Lights twinkle and couples hold hands, or colorful shopping bags. He knows that it's been years since Slaine has seen anything like this on Earth, but he doesn't try to speculate what he's thinking about it, or what he's feeling.

Nor to choose among the reasons that, when presented with the opportunity to run, he helped him instead.

Slaine Troyard really is a puzzle.

"We'll have to go back soon," he says quietly, taking a sip of his cocoa. It's sweeter than he'd care for, but he supposes this must be the sort of thing his company likes. And the taller man wouldn't know anything about his own preferences...not that he'd complain anyhow.

Silence follows for several moments. As he watches him, Slaine's expression doesn't seem to change, and he doesn't look away from the window. It gives the impression that, while he's seated at arm's reach, he is at the same time very far away. Perhaps he's also thinking about how long it's been, or something else entirely.

When he begins to doubt that Slaine is listening at all, he opens his mouth to repeat his words - and that's when he gets his answer, quiet and calm.

"...I know."


End file.
